Syntax Junkie vs an Everlasting Anthology for Trash

 
Where do the words go when they've been read for the last time, slipping from the page without goodbye?
Are they jumbled letters wiped from memory banks and converted to dud currency on a scrap pile, higher than forever's steaming language landfill of rhyme and reason.
Words won't tell you if it's the next time to be hurt again or to love again, when you've lost the plot again or when to proffer your soul.
They leave no time for why, while you work out how to reason the truths of your own.
So for now you return to your screen like a moth, grounded and burned but unbowed.
More words craving order in perfect sequential procession, to be found, forgotten, discarded as the latest best phrases appear.
Hopeful hitch-hikers of expectant recycling on some literary bus-route
always relentless as spam